Work Text:
Rose stands on the black and white checkerboard of a swaying castle. Her clothes are bleached white, her skin dyed black, the sky pale as bone, the clouds inky. Black and white, white and black, and the haze of dreams blurring it all together. She turns and the world slides too close together, becomes snow smeared over tar, and when she stops it oozes back into place. The monotony makes the red at her feet painful to look at; it’s too bright, much too alive. She knows this is a dream. She knows it every night. Still, her skin prickles and she can’t breathe for the thing stuck in her throat. The red at her feet oozes into a purple scarf.
Then the dream drifts apart. It goes softly as flower petals, instead of the hard jarring wrench of bolting upright and sweaty on a lumpy mattress. Rose has time to watch it fade and to realize her scalp feels warm.
She opens her eyes and blinks twice. Her back aches from sleeping on the couch. The meteor’s stale air chills her skin through the godtier pajamas. And nails run through her hair, parting strands, softer than any comb she’s ever used. For a strange second she thinks her mother is there; a false thought from an empty memory, she probably read it once and the idea stuck to her subconscious. Someone's hand combs her hair. Rose can see the hint of a body and a red dress beside her. She chooses not to look just yet. She rather likes the tingling soothing sensation. It calms the angry buzz that usually fills her head.
“I’m sorry if I woke you,” says Kanaya. Hearing her so close sends a mixed thrill and anxious cold through Rose. She has no control over herself when she sleeps. What must she look like, slumped on the couch and drooling into her clothes? What did she do during her nightmare?
She swallows and puts all of her squirmy nerves under beneath her ribs and locks it there. She smiles just with her lips, thin and brief. “I don’t mind. Honestly, I should know better than to sleep here.” Kanaya’s hand slows then pauses. Rose can’t stop herself from asking, too curious, too aware the of troll so close. “What were you doing?”
The hand pulls away and Kanaya settles it in her lap. “You appeared distressed. My lusus, when I was younger she would clean my hair when I was distraught.” The meteor’s lights are dim at best, and Kanaya’s glow is suddenly the brightest thing in the room. “I hope I was not making some impasse on your human culture.”
One of Kanaya’s fangs worries at her lip. Her thumb rubs against the side of her palm. Rose glances up and for a moment catches her eyes against Kanaya’s, bright as her skin and yellow as topaz, the slit pupils looking back. All of the words Rose could say get stuck. She forces her eyes up a little more to the troll’s hairline.
“It’s fine,” she says, knowing she has delayed too long. The conversation hangs between them. Better to end it here and revisit the subject later. Better to get off the couch and go to her room and sleep like a sane human, hoping the nightmare stays quiet. “Humans have a number of hair related rituals,” she says instead.
Kanaya shows immediate interest, even shifting to face Rose, and all of that genuine attention weighs on Rose like quicksand, or lead, or warmth. She shuffles through her mind for what to say now and is saved when Dave rolls in on a shitty jpeg skateboard, which swerves him into the nearest wall. Kanaya goes to help, Karkat comes shouting into the room about poor use of grist, and Rose sighs. Her scalp still tingles.
The next few days, Rose finds her gaze drifting to Kanaya’s hair. Solid black and forever styled in the spiky bob Kanaya seems to favor. Is it rough or smooth? The trolls have chitinous plates like a Praying Mantis, but the skin under that looks like hers—smooth and soft. So is their hair like human hair? Does it become soft and springy when washed? Their scalps must have some sensitivity, or at least Kanaya’s does if her Lusus could brush it to some effect. Karkat’s hair moves when he grabs his head, so it must be pliable. Terezi’s hair defies gravity and seems pointy enough to draw blood, though. Perhaps the bloodtype changes it.
“Rose, you are not looking at the book.”
She purses her lips and bites her tongue behind that. She lost focus again and let herself slip. “I’m sorry, still accommodating myself to this place. I fear it will be a few days yet until I sleep well.”
“I hope you’re not sleeping on the couches again,” Kanaya says. The lore book sits open between them but they’ve both stopped writing. “A slouch would be unseemly for a lady your age.”
Rose grins. “I must settle for the bed, which is ultimately a flat couch. Though I assure you mine is made from the finest wooden slabs and broken plastic. Us poor humans have no equivalent to the trollish resting cocoon.”
“Recuperacoon,” Kanaya corrects. She’s grinning wider than Rose now, her head tilted and resting on one hand. Strands of her hair drift down over her grey fingers and Rose watches them wave in the faint draft. “If you’re so desperate I suppose I could allow you to share mine.”
That takes a moment to process. Rose stares at Kanaya and Kanaya glows bright. Do trolls blush? Her cheeks have a new shade to them even through the grey color and the thin plates. “I did not mean it like that,” Kanaya blurts, “I did not mean it like anything really. I was saying words and the words may have created an impression but that impression is entirely out of my hands. I simply meant that. That if you wished I’m sure we could alchemize a recuperacoon or some such similar device for you and Dave too of course.”
Silence, fat and awkward, settles between them. Rose has to let her eyes adjust to Kanaya’s glow then sees her staring hard at the book.
Most anything Rose says now will be fine by comparison to that. A part of her hates that this is what she needs to speak; this leverage over a friend to ensure her own safety. Too many years of winning and losing against her own mother have scorched the habit into her. “I never did explain to you the human hair rituals,” she says. Kanaya looks so relieved and Rose’s stomach twists with knowing this is anything but selfless. “The most common one is a purification process. Would you like me to show you?”
Kanaya nods and says, “Yes.”
There are no showers or sinks on the meteor. Rose takes an empty glass vat, hooks a hose into one of the water pipes, and does a quick alchemization of conditioner—soap, some of her hair, and what she hopes is a flower seed. The bottle has Didgytoo For You on the label, but it smells like conditioner, flowery and creamy. She sits Kanaya down in front of the vat and has her bend back until her short hair dangles over the empty space.
“Close your eyes,” Rose says with the hose in her hand. She triple checks the water against her thumb—comfortably warm. When Kanaya’s ready, she douses her hair until it goes thick and heavy. With the hair falling back from her face, she sees the small joins where Kanaya’s chitin plates become the skin on her scalp. Kanay’s hands wiggle against her lap, fingers threading and pulling apart. “If anything I do is uncomfortable I will stop,” Rose adds.
Kanaya does a small nod and doesn’t object when Rose lathers her with the conditioner. She scrubs until it foams, then kneads her fingers against Kanaya’s scalp. Her hair is soft and wiry, like spider silk, but that might be the lather. Rose works at the scalp, pressing and parting the strands like she’s had done to her in barber shops. If she stops now her mind will grind to a halt. She focuses on the hair sliding between her fingers and the crisp green smell of clovers coming off Kanaya; she does her best to ignore her heart squirming in her chest.
Kanaya relaxes into her hands. She makes a noise like a cat’s purr and a cicada chirp mixed together, low in her throat. It cuts off quickly, Kanaya’s mouth tightening. Rose says nothing and keeps working on Kanaya’s hair. She fears that if she says something it will be the wrong thing, and this will stop, Kanaya will leave and none of this will happen again. For long seconds she only hears the heavy pounding of her heart. Then Kanaya swallows visibly and the deep clicking rumble starts again.
Later, with pruny fingers and the conditioner bottle half-empty, Rose finishes. Washes off the bubbles and foam and helps Kanaya dry off. “I’ll have to fix up my hair now,” Kanaya says with a frown that lasts only a second.
They’re alone, late into what passes as night. The softness of Kanaya’s skin clings to Rose’s fingers like static. The clover smell fills the air. Her heart rides high into her mouth. Anxiety? Hope? Fear? Her heads a muddle, muddy mess of wonderings: should I, can I, too fast, too slow, when or never or soon.
Kanaya smiles with her whole face, her cheeks lifting and eyes crinkled, and says, “Perhaps next time I could return the favor?”
Rose can only nod.